


killing me by degrees

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode Tag, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-20
Updated: 2006-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blues is a low-down achin' heart disease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	killing me by degrees

**Author's Note:**

> A tag to episode 2x08 -- won't make sense if you haven't seen it. Oh, so not betaed. For sockkpuppett, because I love her very much. And, yeah, I don't know where this came from, either. Sometimes, the fingers, they type.

> the blues is a low-down achin' heart disease  
> Like consumption  
> killing me by degrees  
> I can study rain  
> oh, oh, drive, oh, oh, drive my blues
> 
> I been studyin' the rain and  
>  I'm gon' drive my blues away  
>  Goin' to the 'stil'ry  
>  stay out there all day
> 
> _—Robert Johnson, Preachin' Blues (Up Jumped the Devil)_

  
**killing me by degrees**

It's not the first time he's dreamed of his dad, but this isn't like the other times. This time it's so real he can feel the ache of his lungs from running, can taste the harsh burn of brimstone in his lungs and metallic blood on the back of his tongue, can smell the reek of charred flesh and acid rain and under it the musky, familiar scents of flannel and Old Spice and his _dad, _ warm and real and holding on to him so tight, for long minutes he can't breathe.

"Dean," his dad says at last, voice rough with pain, with love, and relief. "You came."

Dean is crying, can feel the tears running down his cheeks, and doesn't care. "What, did you think I wouldn't?" He's holding on so tight it has to hurt, but Dad doesn't complain.

"No, I knew you would. I knew."

"Damn straight." Words are too hard, and they don't have much time; Dean just holds tighter and gets an arm under his dad's shoulder and helps him up, only too glad to take his weight. Dean thinks he'd carry him if he had to, that he'd fly them out of here with the force of his will if he had to. He can't see, but he knows the way, can see the way out like a shimmer in his mind, and his dad's with him so he knows they'll make it.

They're close when his dad stops and looks at him, says, "Son, aren't you forgetting something?"

And it's only then that Dean looks up and realizes Sam is there with them, his face naked and his eyes bright with satisfaction from watching them. He stands easily, hands at his sides, relaxed. Something warm blooms in Dean's chest and he can't quite breathe right, his stomach light with a dizzying relief like falling. Dean wonders how long he's been there, waiting. "Sam," he says, and he knows Sam will see he's been crying. It's all right now, though. Dad's here, and everything's going to be all right. "Where've you been?"

"Right where you left me," Sam says, and he's smiling sadly.

"Well, come on, don't just stand there. Give me a hand."

But, "I can't, Dean," Sam says, eyes soft with regret. "I can't go with you."

"What do you mean, you can't?" A tremor rumbles ominously around them, and Dean feels the first stirrings of alarm, puts them down ruthlessly. "Come on, quit kiddin' around, man. We gotta book."

"I'm sorry."

Dean's starting to get angry now; Sam's off his head if he thinks there's even a remote chance of them walking out of here without him. "Screw that. Dad!" he calls, looking for Dad to back him up, but their dad is a little distance away now and doesn't turn around, just waits at the gates, his head bowed. "Sam, knock it off, it's not funny."

"It's okay, man, you made your choice. I get it. It's all right. Makes things easier." Sam nods toward Dad then, though his eyes are only for Dean, like he's drinking him in. "Go on, now. It's time."

His choice? What the fuck is Sam talking about? Dean looks again for help from his dad, and this time when he turns back, Sam is backing away from him, out of his reach. Dean's heart kicks, a sharp jolt of fear, and his vision is starting to go dark at the edges. He feels like he can't move, like it's him who's being pulled backwards slowly, inexorably. He tries to reach out but his body won't do what he tells it to. "No. No, this ain't--"

"Bye, Dean."

"Sam, _no--_" But Sam's gone, his smile and his eyes the last thing Dean sees.

"Sammy!"

Dean wakes up with a shock, stomach muscles wrenched hard with the gasp of protest. He's bare-chested and sitting up in bed with the force of his terror, the sound of his own voice saying his brother's name unmistakable. Just as unmistakable are the big, warm hands wrapped around his goosefleshed biceps, gripping him hard, holding him braced against the shudder of visceral dread and denial that woke him.

"Dean, it's okay! I'm right here. Come on, man, wake up."

Motel room, like a thousand others. Brown carpet. Brown furniture, cheap laminate that's seen better days. Pale, acid-yellow light through the gauze curtains from the parking lot outside, cutting through the indistinct gray of the hour before dawn. They'd driven until the adrenaline crash, like any other night, any other hunt. How many hours ago? Dean doesn't know. He doesn't remember falling asleep.

He's finally, really awake, though the nightmare still has its icy grip around his heart, his gut, and he can feel himself shaking. He's holding on to Sam, too, he realizes, hands locked tight around his brother's arms, holding on for dear life. He makes himself breathe and gets a lungful of his brother's familiar scents, shampoo and cheap laundry soap and salt-clean skin, and doesn't want to let go. Nightmare. Jesus. At last he gets his panic to ratchet down a notch, tries to make himself stop holding on to Sam like he's going to vanish any second. The embarrassment hits, his face flaming as he realizes Sam heard him say his name in that panicked, desperate voice, that he's half-naked and wholly exposed and his brother's hands are on him, that he can't pretend this was anything but what it was. _All right, I'm awake, get the hell off me_ is on his lips, but the panic is still knotted up inside him and he's having a hard time making himself let go. For just a second he lets himself breathe and lean on Sam, lets himself feel his steadiness, his strength, his solid presence.

It's a mistake. The rest of the dream comes back to him in a rush, the low rumble of his dad's gravelly voice and the rock-steady strength of his hands, his body, the too-real memory of him right there, right next to him, warm and real and alive. Grief like an old wound freshly opened aches and bleeds in Dean, rushes up without warning, and he remembers like a gut-punch how real it was, how fiercely he'd believed it.

It's too much, feeling so miserable with his defenses down and Sam right there seeing all of it, making it impossible to pull himself back together. Sam, who needs so much from him, who he keeps failing, over and over.

He's still panicking despite his best efforts to get it under control, breathing hard and feeling like he's going to throw up, like he has to move or hit something and Sam's the closest thing; he's scared to death he's going to hurt him again and that look is going to just finish him. Sam's angry at him, he remembers, feeling sick. Angry at him for even thinking about doing the very thing he'd condemned their dad for. Angry at him for too many things to name -- all of which boil down to pretty much the same thing.

But Sam's voice is gentle now, too close, inside his defenses like always. "Dean. Hey. Hey, it's all right--"

Dean lets Sam go like he's poison, shoves hard against him, almost shoving him off the bed. Sam recoils, then recovers. Dean's breathing hard and harsh, like he's run a race. Sam reaches out to calm him and does maybe the only think he can think of: he kisses him. Just presses close and presses his mouth to Dean's, his hand in Dean's hair.

Dean stills. He eyes go closed and the two of them stay like that, just breathing, Sam calming him with that measured, shared breath and the soft, firm pressure of his kiss. Sam's warm and steady and doesn't move, just holds him there and breathes with him and Dean remembers out of the blue how sometimes when Sam was a baby he would wake crying in the night and want to be held tight, held down, Dean's weight and the secure pressure of the blanket and Dean's arms pinning his limbs down the only thing that reassured him.

The weirdness of what Sam's just done hits them both a second later -- Dean can feel it in the sudden sharp intake of the breath Sam takes, the sudden stillness of Sam's hand against the side of Dean's face. They break apart at the same instant, Dean sucking in air, eyes popping open and disbelief making him frown. "Sam, what the hell." His voice is low, almost normal -- if anything about this is normal -- but he has no idea what look is on his face.

Sam looks back at him like he's got no more idea than Dean does what the hell just happened. He's flushed, and breathing fast, and his lip curls back the way it does when someone's gotten hurt and Sam couldn't stop it, like something's wrong with the balance of the world and he thinks he should be able to fix it all by himself, just because he's Sam Winchester and that should be enough. He's still too close, still in Dean's space -- he's big and solid and overwhelming this close, his hand hot on Dean's neck and his hair a soft, wild halo of curls from falling asleep on it wet. "Dean--"

Dean has nowhere to go; the headboard is solid up against his back. He reaches out and very deliberately lays a hand flat on Sam's chest, just above his heart, and shoves him gently, but firmly, back out of his personal space. A part of him is suddenly calm, relieved to find lines he can draw without even thinking about it, even as another part of him is shaking, suspended over the abyss. He's startled and relieved to hear himself laugh, a low, harsh sound. "Dude, I don't even want to know."

Sam doesn't resist, lets Dean push him far enough back that Dean can swing his feet to the floor and push past him, putting feet of safety between them -- though what the fuck he's afraid of, he has no idea. In the space of one night he's been kissed by a demon and by his brother and of the two, he'll take Sam any day.

He shudders before he can stop himself, feeling the visceral memory of her tongue and her sharp cold teeth and the scent of burnt sugar and gardenias, sickly sweet.

"It won't happen, you know," Sam says behind him, his voice low, matter-of fact. "No matter what."

Dean opens his eyes. Didn't realize he'd closed them.

"I meant what I said, all right? I'm not going anywhere. Not now, not--"

"Don't," Dean cuts him off, hearing the harsh, desperate note he can't suppress. Don't make promises you'll regret, is what he means, but his throat aches, locked tight. He can still feel the rough calluses of his dad's hands, can still feel soft flannel and strong arms and the rough rasp of his dad's chin on his forehead. It hurts more than he can stand, and if he looks at Sam right now it'll all have been for nothing -- all the months of holding it in, of waking up every morning and putting on the game face and pretending that he can still be here for Sam in any way that matters. If he looks at Sam he'll see the truth of his nightmare in bitter, stark relief, and he just-- he doesn't think he can take it right now.

"Dean."

He doesn't look. Takes two steps toward the thin refuge the bathroom offers. But some things are ingrained so deep they'll never change, and though it tears something in him to do it, he half turns, a note of apology in his voice when he says, "Just go back to sleep, okay? Quit worryin' about me for five minutes. You're starting to turn into an old grandma."

It's weak, but it's enough, and Sam lets him escape into the bathroom without further protest. Dean closes the door and leans against it, closing his eyes. Listening. _Watch out for Sammy,_ his dad said to him at the end, but Dean doesn't have anything left, not even for his brother, and doesn't know how to tell him that even though he knows Sam knows. It's obvious to both of them -- Dean's cracking apart and he can't even keep himself together, never mind Sam.

After a long moment, he hears the squeak of the mattress as Sam gets up, then the fainter rustle of bedclothes. Then, nothing. Dean's lips feel bruised, the skin tingling, too warm.

Dean pushes himself away from the door and turns on the water in the narrow tub shower, makes it as hot as he thinks he can stand it. He strips off his sweatpants and gets in, letting the heat sluice away the acrid sweat of panic, the residual tremors of a nightmare that still feels more real than the waking world. It's not the terror he felt at the end that hurts so bad, it's the hope before that. He lets it go, because he can't afford it. If he lets himself start to think about that hope like it might be real, he might as well just lie down and give himself over, body and soul, to every evil thing that wants to take him.

He breathes his first normal breath since he woke up, and depression hits him like a great weight, pressing down on his shoulders. It's nothing new. Sam is the only thing he has left, and he's losing him, and it's not like he doesn't know that. It's not like he doesn't fucking know.

 

~ end ~


End file.
